


Sleepless Nights

by ThanksForListening



Series: Game of Thrones One Shots [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, not romantic btw, tw: rape mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-11
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-11-15 09:32:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18070835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThanksForListening/pseuds/ThanksForListening
Summary: Convo I wish Arya and Sansa had during season 7.





	Sleepless Nights

**Author's Note:**

> tw: rape is mentioned but it's not graphic. pls be safe though.

On the night she slit Littlefinger’s throat, Arya couldn’t sleep. Not because of what she’d done — she had stopped losing sleep over her kills ages ago — but because of what _he’d_ done. As she stood out on the balcony, staring at the empty streets of Winterfell, it wasn’t Littlefinger’s face that she couldn’t stop seeing, but her sister’s. 

She had known, when she had first talked to Sansa after her homecoming, that she had suffered in the years they’d been apart. She’s said as much, but had refrained from providing any details, had only made vague references to troublesome experiences. So had Arya, for that matter, but she’d assumed that Sansa was overreacting. She had always been dramatic, always cared too much for the superficial things. Surely, Arya had thought, Sansa’s definition of horror could never match her own. 

That was before she heard the screams. 

Her first night home, sleeping in the bed that had belonged to her a lifetime ago, she woke up to the sound of complete and utter terror. She recognized it, both the sound itself and who was making it. 

She was up and running within an instant, armed with the dagger she hid under her pillow. As she turned the corner, however, she saw the door was already open. The screaming had stopped, replaced with the sounds of muffled sobs. Walking up slowly, Arya peered into the doorway to find Brienne, that tall knight she had run from once, sitting on her sister’s bed. She was holding her, running a hand down the back of her head in a way that made Arya instantly think of her mother. 

Standing around the corner, peering into her sisters room, she watched and listened. “He’s back, he’s back” Sansa kept repeating in between sobs. “He’s back he’s back he’s back” 

“Shhh,” Brienne whispered, “you’re safe, my lady. You’re safe.” 

It took seven minutes and fourteen seconds before Sansa’s sobs slowed down, before she stopped hyperventilating, before she was able to open her eyes. It took another forty seconds before Brienne let go, sitting back slightly but still keeping a reassuring hand on Sansa’s shoulder. Not that Arya was counting. 

“Was it the same as before, my lady?” Brienne asked. 

Sansa nodded. “He was back,” she said, her voice soft and raspy. She was looking down, but Arya could see the pain in her eyes, a mix of anger and fear that was all too familiar to her. “He said he was going to punish me for trying to leave. He—“ she paused, and Arya felt like she couldn’t breathe. “I felt it. Everything he did to me, I felt it. I still feel it, feel _him,_ all over me, and I can’t make it stop,” She was spiraling again, and Arya could see tears streaming down her face, “I want it to stop, I need it to stop, _please,_ make it stop.” 

Arya couldn’t watch anymore. She had fled after that, gone back to her room and acted like it never happened. Standing on the balcony now, days later, she wondered what kind of person that made her. A good sister would have been comforting. A good warrior would have been brave enough to listen. Maybe she really was No One. 

“Couldn’t sleep either?” She heard from behind, and turned to see Sansa walk up next to her. Even in her night clothes she still somehow looked regal, commanded power in a way Arya never could. 

“I used to catch Father out here,” Arya said in response. “On the nights I used to sneak out to train, I always found him here, just staring at nothing. I remember thinking that he looked sad, but by morning he was always back to himself, so I never questioned it.” 

Sansa frowned. “He never would have shown us that, shown us that the world wasn’t always good and pretty now that he’d fought all the battles for us.”

Arya nodded. “He tried his best to hide us from the truth.”

Sansa looked down. “Sometimes I wonder whether he should have just let us see it.” 

They stood, silently, staring out at the empty streets, letting the quiet fill the space between them. The snow was coming down softly, gently covering everything below them. The brisk winter air seemed to sing, the wind whistling a melody that Arya had nearly forgotten. 

“Did you miss it?” Sansa said, breaking the silence.

“Miss what?” 

“The snow. I imagine you didn’t see much of it in Braavos.” 

Arya laughed. “Not in Braavos. The rain was bad enough — I don’t think I would have made it on the streets if it had snowed”.

“The streets?” Sansa asked, and Arya froze. “You lived on the streets?”

“Only for a little while.” She said quickly. “And I managed okay. I was blind then, so people were more generous.” 

“You—I’m sorry, you were what? How were you blind?” 

Arya sighed. “It’s a long story. One I’m not sure you’d believe if I told you.” 

“I’d like to hear it,” Sansa said quietly, “one day.” 

Arya looked over at her. “Will you tell me yours?”

Sansa tried to hide it, but Arya saw how her grip on the railing in front of them tightened when she asked. “I’m afraid it’s not very interesting. A lot of politics, which I know you’ve never cared for.” 

Arya turned back toward Winterfell. “‘Politics’ aren’t why you scream at night though, are they?” 

She felt, rather than saw, Sansa stiffen. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“I hear things,” Arya continued. She stared straight ahead, too afraid of what she’d see reflected on her sister’s face. “Littlefinger sold you to the Boltons. The one you had to marry — Ramsey — they talk about him all the time.” 

“Stop,” Sansa whispered. 

“I didn’t think anyone could be worse than Joffrey,” Arya continued, “but from what I heard, he had nothing on the Bolton bastard.” 

“Stop,” Sansa said again, and Arya knew she should but it was like someone had set off a switch in her brain, and she couldn’t stop until everything came out. 

“I heard you,” she blurted out, eyes still cast straightforward. “When I first came home, I heard you screaming in the middle of the night. ‘He’s back’ you kept saying, ‘he’s back’”.

“Please,” Sansa said, and Arya turned toward her. Tears were slowly streaming down her sisters face, and Arya found herself wishing for her mother, something she’d found herself doing more often these days. She would know what to do, know the right thing to say. For all she had learned, in this Arya was clueless.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “I just — I didn’t — I’m sorry.” 

“Everyone keeps saying that,” Sansa said, “but it doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t _fix_ anything.” 

Arya just looked at her. She’d seen her sister angry before — she used to thrive on making her sister angry — but this, the fury that burned within her eyes, was something different entirely. 

“What will fix it?” She asked, tentatively.

Now it was Sansa who stared straight ahead. “I don’t think anything will. No one can protect me anymore.” 

Arya thought for a moment. “Follow me.”. 

“What?” Sansa replied, but Arya was already moving. “Where are we going?” she asked, as Arya kept walking, the path ingrained in her memory even after all these years. 

She stopped in a gap between buildings, an area that she had discovered years ago. Even after everything that had happened to Winterfell, her spot remained untouched. 

“This was where I used to train,” she said by way of explanation, pulling out a straw practice dummy from a crevice in the corner. 

“How did you even find this place?” Sansa asked, looking around her. The space could easily fit the both of them, but as Arya stood the dummy up, she found the space was smaller than she remembered, that there was just enough room for the three of them to stand upright. 

“I was desperate and small,” she said in response, “so I looked where nobody else did.” 

Arya reached into the hole she’d dug and grabbed the wooden practice sword she had hidden ages ago, when she thought she’d return to Winterfell in a few months as opposed to a few years. Turning toward her sister, she handed her the sword.

“I don’t know how to use this,” Sansa said, staring at the weapon like it confused her. 

“You don’t have to,” Arya said, “just grab it.”

Sansa hesitantly took the sword, and Arya positioned her in front of the practice dummy. 

“What am I supposed to do with this?” Sansa asked, and Arya couldn’t help but smile at how much she sounded like the teenager she’d remembered. 

“You’re supposed to hit it, _Lady of Winterfell,_ ” she said, laughing. 

“But I don’t know how,” Sansa insisted.

“You don’t have to dance with it, just whack the damn thing.” 

Sansa gave her an annoyed stare, and tapped the dummy with the sword. 

“Harder,” Arya said.

Sansa sighed and hit it again, with slightly more power this time. 

“Good. Now harder.”

Sansa hit it with more force, and Arya could see the shift, could see the way her sister subtly adjusted her grip on the weapon and bent her knees slightly. 

“Good. Now harder.”

Sansa hit it again, grunting slightly with the effort. 

“Good. Now imagine that it’s everyone who keeps apologizing for something they can’t fix, who keeps looking at you like you’re going to fall apart. Show them how you feel.” 

Sansa smacked it, grunting louder as the sword made contact. 

“Take everything you feel, everything that’s happened to you, and send it into this instead,” Arya said, watching as Sansa hit it again and again. 

“Imagine that’s Joffrey. Show him what you think of him,” she said, and Sansa hit the dummy again, her face furrowed in concentration. 

“Imagine that’s Littlefinger,” Arya said, “hit him with the force of everything he did to you.”

Sansa got louder, her hits stronger and faster. 

Arya took a breath. “Imagine that’s Ramsey,” she said, and she caught the brief hesitation, the moment of fear that broke through the wall the repetition had built up. “Show him how you feel. _Tell_ him how you feel.” 

Sansa stood still for a moment, sword still in hand, and Arya worried that she’d gone too far, that she’d somehow hurt her sister yet again. But she couldn’t do nothing, couldn’t run away this time. She unsheathed Needle and slashed the dummy. “I hate you,” she said, “I hate you, Ramsey Bolton.” With each sentence she hit the dummy again and again, accenting her words with each swing. “I _hate_ what you did to my sister. I _hate_ what you did to my home. I _hate_ that you’re already dead, because you’re at the _top_ of my _list_.” 

She was about to swing again when she heard a thunk. She turned toward Sansa, watched as she slowly looked up at the dummy. “I hate you,” she whispered, as she smacked it. 

“I hate you,” Arya echoed, hitting it the same way Sansa did. They went back and forth, speaking louder each time.

“I hate what you did to me,”

_Thunk._

“I hate what you did to her.” 

_Thunk._

“You hurt me,”

_Thunk._

“You’re a coward.”

_Thunk._

“You beat me.”

_Thunk._

“You’re a killer.”

_Thunk._

“You raped me,” Sansa said, and as the words came out her body stopped, her arms frozen in the air on their way to hit the dummy again. Arya went silent. There was a difference, she suddenly discovered, between suspecting and knowing. 

“Sansa,” she said, softly, not quite sure how to proceed anymore. 

“You raped me,” she whispered again, and repeating the phrase seemed to reboot her body, as her sword made its way to the figure in front of her. “Every _morning_ , every _night_ , you _raped_ me,” Sansa said, accenting every other word with the sound of her sword colliding with the figure in front of her. Her eyes were open, but Arya knew she wasn’t seeing a figure made of straw anymore. 

She hit it over and over again. “You kept me locked up,” she said, her voice getting louder as her frequency of hits increased. “You made me your prisoner, your play thing, your toy,” she was hitting it harder and harder, faster and faster. 

“You made me want to _die!_ ” She was nearly yelling, and as she hit the dummy again it collapsed. Arya watched as she closed her eyes, tears rolling down her face anyway. “You broke me,” she said softly, and something inside Arya cracked at the sound of her voice. 

Sansa dropped the sword, and fell to her knees. Arya was at her side at an instant, mimicking the motions she’d watched Brienne do days earlier. “He broke me,” Sansa whispered, and Arya shook her head before she realized her sister couldn’t see her. 

“‘No, no he didn’t.” She grabbed her sister by the shoulders. “Sansa, look at me.”

As Sansa looked up, Arya pointed toward the dummy, laying in shatters on the ground. “He didn’t break you,” she said softly, “he’s the broken one.” 

Sansa started at the tattered figure laying on the ground, straw scattered everywhere. 

“You’re here,” Arya continued, “he’s not. You’re in charge of Winterfell now. You won the Battle of the Bastards. He can never hurt you again, not because anyone else protected you, but because you protected yourself.” 

She was still crying, and Arya worried that she’d said the wrong thing again, until her sister turned away from the broken dummy and threw her arms around her. Arya froze for an instant before doing the same. As the two of them sat there, embracing on the cold ground, the snow still coming down around them, Arya knew she could never be No One. With all her forthcomings, with all her flaws, her family still needed Arya Stark. Her sister needed Arya Stark. 

And as she sat there, looking at the remains of their collective rage, of her sister’s trauma, she thought about everything that had to happen to bring them here. She thought of how she had almost lost her sister without even knowing, how she had almost lost herself in Braavos, how willing she had been to give up who she was. She wasn’t her mother -- she would never be good at this the way she had been, but she also wasn’t No One, and as she sat there, side by side with her sister, she realized that she, too, needed Arya Stark.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!!! I thrive off comments and kudos so any or both are very appreciated. also i may have made some stuff up to make this story work but you know what its fine we're fine thats why we call it fiction lolol. also i might write a prequel of sorts to this that's about Brienne and Sansa but idk yet so if that's something you'd be interested in let me know. Also you can find me on tumblr @Thanks--for--listening if u wanna discuss how season 8 is going to kill us all!


End file.
